


Cancelling the Apocalypse

by buckgaybarnes



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Good Omens Fusion, Blatant anachronisms, Historical Settings, Kaiju, M/M, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, less re: fic length and more for...time, no spoilers for the tv series if you're worried about that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-14
Updated: 2019-06-14
Packaged: 2020-05-07 19:08:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19215691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buckgaybarnes/pseuds/buckgaybarnes
Summary: The problem with Hermann—aside from the obvious factor of their being Mortal Enemies, but both he and Newt tended to gloss over that—was that he was nowhere near as loose with following the Rules as Newt, nowhere near as... lax in respecting authority. (Though, Newt supposed, that was for the better; Newt’s unsquashable rebellious streak was what led him to Fall, after all.) Hermann was too fixated on impressing the Higher-Ups and getting pats on the head for it. And normally, Newt would put up with it, maybe prod a bit of fun at it and Hermann’s father, who was definitely in the running for Absentee Parent of Existence Award, but this was the end of the world they were talking about here. “Dude,” he said, empathetically. “Come on.”Hermann fidgeted some more. Then he began to visibly Fret.“I know you’d miss me,” Newt said.(OR: inevitable PR/GO fusion wherein hermann is a terrible angel, newt is a terrible demon, and the end of the world is a little more sci-fi than either of their sides anticipated)





	Cancelling the Apocalypse

**Author's Note:**

> holy shit. at long last ive finished this. this fic has been a wip in my documents for well over a year at this point and went through, like, three different iterations before i gave up on it, only to power through all of the good omens television series in a night two weeks back and FINALLY get that extra boost of inspiration i needed. there are a few lines i've pulled directly from previous drafts i posted pieces of to my tumblr last year, so if you recognize them that's why!
> 
> no *real* knowledge of the book or miniseries required, but it probably won't be as (hopefully) funny without it. also, you should read the book and/or watch the miniseries
> 
> also, there's no real rhyme or reason to anywhere i threw newt and hermann in history, mostly theyre just historical things i either knew a lot about or have been to (in, like, a modern setting, obviously). in complete honesty the single bit in london was inspired by some weirdly complex doctor who crossover i planned one time (please don't ask)

On the morning of August 10, 2013, Newton Geiszler woke to find Hermann Gottlieb pacing around his sitting room and looking even more fussy than usual, which was quite a feat for Hermann _._ It was a surprise, to say the least. It’d been a good twenty years since Newt last saw Hermann, and even before then, they didn’t make a habit out of randomly springing their company on the other like that. That was how you ended up with the nearest sharpest object in your gut, a new body, a shit-ton of paperwork, and your superiors on your ass, which Newt had learned the hard way several times over. “Did I forget an anniversary?” Newt said, yawning and poking at his coffee pot. It sparked to life instantly. Strictly speaking, Newt didn’t need sleep, or really even caffeine, but overindulgence seemed like the sort of thing that was expected of him. Anyway, it was fun. “I thought the big ole’ six thousandth was next month.”

“ _No_ ,” Hermann said. Fussier, _and_ bitchier than usual. Whatever Newt did, it must be bad. “Have you looked at the news today?”

Newt gestured to his ratty sweatpants, then to his coffee mug. “I just woke up.”

“So you haven’t?” Hermann said.

“Here’s an idea, Hermann,” Newt said, “you can just, you know, _tell_ me what’s got your panties in a twist.”

Hermann waved his hand at Newt’s television set. It switched on.

“Oh,” Newt said, after a few seconds.

He took another mug down from the cabinet and started fixing Hermann some coffee. He figured they’d be here for a while. “Do you still take cream?” he said, grasping at the vague memory of a small cafe in Berlin in 1956, and of Hermann upending an entire cup on Newt’s head and then storming off. Hermann did not seem overly-preoccupied with his coffee, too focused on the news report on Newt’s TV,  so Newt handed it over as it was knowing that Hermann would adjust it if he wasn’t happy.

Hermann nodded at the screen. “Is this one of yours?” he said.

“Hell no,” Newt said, and they both winced. “Fuck no,” he corrected. “You know I’m not that…” He waved his hand vaguely. “Obvious.” Newt didn’t blame Hermann for being suspicious, though. Giant alien monsters rising from the sea certainly had Newt’s name written all over it, even if it was on the tackier side, but it’d be poor sportsmanship to just _surprise_ Hermann like that.

“It’s not one of mine,” Hermann hummed. “Or _Ours_ , as far as I’m aware.” It wasn’t one of Theirs, either; as their only agent Here, Newt’s sure Below would’ve dropped him a line about it.

Newt sat next to Hermann on the sofa and watched him as he turned the head of his cane over and over in his hand, tapped his finger on the side of his mug, and scuffed one pristine and oversized Oxford back and forth over Newt’s hardwood floor. He was shockingly silent over it all. Newt had always been the more talkative of the two, but under normal circumstances, Hermann would have rattled off no less than three separate theories and five separate solutions by now. “What is it, then?” Newt finally said. “I mean—if it’s not one of mine, and it’s not one of yours. Do you think—?”

What Newt was going to say was _something else entirely_ , but the idea unnerved him, and he let it go unspoken. Hermann understood him anyway; Hermann always understood him.

“It must be,” Hermann said, solemn in a way that unsettled Newt. He’d stopped tapping his finger. “What else could it be?”

They didn’t end up drinking a bunch, which is what Newt really wanted to do, but Hermann agreed to stay at Newt’s for the night under the guise of _discussing their options_. Newt thought Hermann might just be lonely. It’d been twenty long years since they’d hung out, after all. He was always trying to talk Hermann into getting a damned cell phone so they could just text already, like normal human-shaped beings, instead of the snail mail Hermann insisted on. (Privately, Newt did appreciate the inherent romantic factor of Hermann’s preferred method.)

“It just hardly seems fair, does it?” Hermann said. “After all that build-up, all that Planning, and we throw it all out the bloody window for—” He jerked his head towards the television set, which was still playing coverage of the attack. “—That.”

“Bit of a wild card,” Newt agreed. If he felt exceptionally like an asshole or exceptionally up for an argument tonight (and usually he was), he might’ve said something like _maybe this was the Plan all along_ or _yeah, but it’s much cooler, though, isn’t it?_ (because it _was_ , who needed fire and brimstone when you could have _sea monsters_ like something from a sci-fi blockbuster, fucking awesome), but Hermann looked actually, genuinely depressed, so Newt just slipped an arm over his friend’s shoulders instead. The TV blinked off. “You think there’ll be more?”

“I suppose we’ll know soon enough,” Hermann said gloomily.

 

There were more. There were several more, actually. Enough that Newt and Hermann’s respective Superiors took note.

Newt hated having to go Down There for a number of reasons, not in the least because the whole process was just such a hassle. (Though he supposed it would be strange if it wasn’t.) At least he’d expected the emergency meeting and took precautions (i.e., paid his young neighbor a few bucks to feed his betta fish for him over the indefinite period of his absence and used up the rest of his loaf of bread). He was the one to track down Hermann this time all the way to his tidy little flat just outside Oxford. Judging by Hermann’s distinctly frazzled demeanor—very different from when he was merely _fussy_ or _bitchy_ —he’d just finished with an emergency meeting of his own Up There.

“Since you haven’t smote me yet,” Newt said, “I’m assuming your orders are the same.” He made himself at home on one of Hermann’s sofas.

Hermann _hmph_ ed. “Yes, well,” he said. “It’s all very convenient, isn’t it?”

Newt’s orders were as followed: to do absolutely nothing. He was to stand aside and let the kaiju—as the media outlets has dubbed the giant sea monsters—ravage and raze the Earth to their liking, and then they’d all swoop in and have that great Big Fight on the ashes. It was a stroke of luck, they explained to Newt, and best of all a real cost-effective one. No need to worry about sending out War or Pollution or any of those guys (or compensating them for their time) when the kaiju were doing their job for them. “So what’s the plan, then?” Newt said. He kicked his feet up on Hermann’s coffee table, just because he knew Hermann hated it. Old habits, etc.. These habits were older than most.

Hermann had been pacing the floor in front of him, cane clicking gently on the wood, and now he stopped and stared strangely at Newt. “What do you mean?”

“Obviously we’re not going to obey them,” Newt said. “Right?”

Hermann fidgeted.

The problem with Hermann—aside from the obvious factor of their being Mortal Enemies, but both he and Newt tended to gloss over that—was that he was nowhere near as loose with following the Rules as Newt, nowhere near as... _lax_ in respecting authority. (Though, Newt supposed, that was for the better; Newt’s unsquashable rebellious streak was what led him to Fall, after all.) Hermann was too fixated on impressing the Higher-Ups and getting pats on the head for it. And normally, Newt would put up with it, maybe prod a bit of fun at it and Hermann’s father, who was definitely in the running for Absentee Parent of Existence Award, but this was the _end of the world_ they were talking about here. “Dude,” he said, empathetically. “Come on.”

Hermann fidgeted some more. Then he began to visibly Fret.

“I _know_ you’d miss me,” Newt said.

This did it for Hermann: his pacing stopped, his shoulders sagged, he collapsed next to Newt on the sofa. “What do you propose we _do_ , then?” he sighed.

 

* * *

 

**Some 6,000 Years Prior, Give or Take**

 

“Do you mind if I sit here?” Newt said.

The angel looked around in confusion for a few moments before he finally noticed Newt hidden among the tall stalks of grass. His expression darkened. “Oh,” he said. “It’s _you_. Haven’t you made enough trouble for one day?”

“I guess,” Newt said, fighting the urge to hang his head in shame. That would be very un-demonic of him. He wondered if the angel was going to smite him to dust with his flaming sword (which was currently flame-less and resting on the ground by his left side, but cool-looking nonetheless) or just step on him. He supposed he’d deserve it—as the angel said, he _did_ make a lot of trouble today.

The angel did nothing, to Newt’s surprise. “You may sit,” he said instead, and gestured magnanimously to the sunny little patch of grass to his right.

“Sweet,” Newt said. He made himself at home. He was pretty tired, to be honest. Busy day, after all, and he still had the commute home to look forward to, which Newt often liked to joke was _hellish_ even if no one ever laughed.

After some time, he became aware the angel was still staring at him. For a moment, Newt wondered if he really _was_ going to smite him this time. Then the angel lifted one finger and prodded Newt’s back. Newt blinked at him. “So what are you meant to be?” the angel said.

“Uh,” said Newt. “I’m a newt?”

The angel tsked. “Not very impressive, are you?”

“Hey, man,” Newt said. “No need to be a dick. This is the body they stuck me in. I can’t help it.”

The angel immediately looked apologetic. “I’m sorry,” he said. “That was rude of me.”

Newt stretched out his limbs. “Nah,” he said, “it’s cool.” He liked the angel already, for some reason. Besides, Newt knew what he was getting at—it was difficult to imagine a tiny little guy like him (bug-eyed, bright orange, no longer than a few inches, generally very unassuming) being the cause of the whole Business with the tree. There’s something to be said for unassuming, though; send up something obvious and creepy, Eve might’ve run off and the whole thing would be a bust. Send up Newt, and, well. “I’m Newt, by the way,” Newt said, and inched in a little closer.

“I’m Hermann,” the angel said.

Newt didn’t know many angels, but he’d been an angel himself once and had a general understanding of how they worked. “Not a very angelic name, is it?” he said, a bit mockingly.

“No,” Hermann said, “but it’s nice. I like it.”

“That’s fair,” Newt said. _Newt_ wasn’t a very demonic name, but no one thought to name him anything else when they sent him up, and he found he liked it, too. “How’d you get stuck with this shift, then?” he said.

Hermann frowned. “What do you mean?”

“It’s gotta be boring as shit just sitting here and waving that thing around,” Newt said, and nodded towards the sword. “Are you being punished for something? Is the Big Man pissed at you for letting me sneak by?”

This was the wrong question to ask, though Newt suspected it was the right answer. Hermann swelled up with Righteous Fury. “This happens to be my _heavenly duty_ ,” he spat, “given to me _graciously_ by my _Father_ as an act of _trust_ —” His hand began to creep towards the sword, which began to spark worryingly. Newt—really not wanting to end up a charred speck of nothing and floating around in a disembodied limbo—did some quick damage control.

“Hey,” Newt said, and he turned his big bug eyes on Hermann in the hopes of appearing _cute_ and generating some sympathy, “easy, dude, easy, I’m sorry, okay?”

The sword flickered out; Newt’s heart rate settled back down into an even beat. Hermann sniffed. “You’re forgiven,” he said, tersely.

Hermann had some serious Daddy Issues to work through.

 

* * *

 

**HONG KONG, CHINA: 2020**

 

The Pan Pacific Defense Corps were more than happy to accept the aid of two scientists as distinguished and famed as Drs. Geiszler and Gottlieb, even if their tertiary background checks revealed little beyond their birth years and a number of accolades that, surely, were beyond the realm of human possibility for two men in their late, er, twenties—Dr. Geiszler’s various PhDs in various subjects (Newt got bored one century), for example, and Dr. Gottlieb’s hand in heralding numerous branches of advanced mathematics. They were perhaps a little _too_ happy to accept Drs. Geiszler and Gottlieb’s aid; Newt hadn’t been stingy with the Demonic Influence. End of the world, he figured, anything goes, no harm in fast-tracking things. Hermann didn’t complain.

Newt _hadn’t_ been able to extend his influence far enough to ensure separate labs for the both of them when it was finally time to ship off to the Hong Kong Shatterdome, so—for the first time in a long, _long_ while, and Newt really did mean long—he and Hermann found themselves in uncomfortably close working conditions. It reminded Newt of the good old days, when he would tempt (badly) and Hermann would thwart (badly) and they’d make nuisances of themselves to each other and any humans in the general radius. Back before they negotiated their agreement to stay out of each other’s hair. Anyway, all that wasn’t the point. They were here now, and they were going to have to make do.

Newt dropped his bags—largely for show, seeing as he didn’t _really_ have a use for most material objects beyond candy cigarettes, manga, his impressive cassette tape collection, and ties with cool patterns—and stuck his hands at his hips as he surveyed the lab. Their lab. “Cozy, isn’t it?” he said. One of the fluorescent lights flickered dismally overhead. Hermann fixed it with a glare.

“Mind your side,” Hermann said.

Newt frowned at him. “What side?”

A yellow tape line had Miraculously appeared down the middle of the room by the time Newt, urged on by Hermann’s nodding and gesticulating, glanced down; Newt’s left boot was an inch to the left of the side that Hermann was occupying.

Hermann gently nudged at him with the end of his cane. Newt rolled his eyes and took a deliberate step over. “Happy?” he said.

“Hm,” Hermann said. In another second, the whiteboards spanning Hermann’s side were replaced with great big chalkboards, the sort that might’ve been at his old laboratory back in the late 1800s. The _very_ sort, in fact. (Newt had invented whiteboards after a minor spat with Hermann in the early twentieth century that left him feeling riled up and petty, and he was endlessly amused they caught on as well as they did. Hermann was less amused.) “Mm,” Hermann said, moderately more pleased, and nodded again.

“ _Wow_ ,” Newt said. “How are you going to explain that?”

“Oh, I don’t imagine they’ll say anything,” Hermann said airily. “Which bedroom would you like?”

 

They reconvened in their shared laboratory space after unpacking, which took Newt significantly less time than Hermann, on account of Hermann having packed ten identical plaid sweatervests and what appeared to be an entire library’s worth of mathematical texts (most of which Hermann had edited himself). Newt’s not sure why he bothered with the clothing; he knows for a fact Hermann hasn’t changed his socks since 1945. “Should’ve brought my guitar,” Newt said mournfully. “Remember that band I had in ‘76?”

“Seventeen or nineteen?” Hermann said. “I recall them both quite well, unfortunately.”

“Nineteen,” Newt said. The one from 1776 was also pretty sick, but nowhere near as loud or obnoxious or Stick-It-To-The-Man, and dancing had improved a lot since then.

“Mm,” Hermann said. “It _was_ loud, wasn’t it?”

Newt also knew for a fact that Hermann had kept the shirt Newt gifted him with the band’s logo on it, as well as at least one poster of a scantily-clad and winking Newt. “It was,” Newt said wistfully. He gave their lab another glance-around. “It could use a couch.”

Hermann was not interested in playing home improvement; he caught the sleeve of Newt’s leather jacket when Newt turned to miracle the aforementioned couch into existence. “Have you heard anymore from your side?” he said, voice lowered.

Newt blinked. Hermann touched him very rarely. “Uh. Nope. Haven’t. Why, is yours pissed at you for—?”

“Technically,” Hermann cut in, dropping his hand, “er, technically, my name’s not _attached_ to all that. Not officially. No way to tie me to it.”

They were talking about the jaeger program, which Hermann had played a none-too-insignificant part in the creation of. Not directly, of course. It was Hermann’s brainchild, but it was all done through suggestion—the right thought planted in the mind of a human over here, another planted in the mind of a human over there, until enough of them got together and said _hey, now that’s an idea_. Hermann was proud of it nonetheless. “Good,” Newt said. Heaven took even less kindly to agents disobeying direct orders than Hell did.

“And you’re certain yours hasn’t…?”

“Trust me,” Newt said, with a wry twist of his lips. “I’d know if I was in trouble.”

Hermann worried at his lower lip. “The attacks are getting closer,” he said. “Less time in between. I’ve been creating a model to predict them, but I’m not sure…”

It was Newt’s turn to wrap his fingers around Hermann’s wrist in a way that he hoped was comforting; Hermann startled, wide eyes turning on Newt. Hermann did not like usually being touched, or perhaps he simply wasn’t used to being touched. “Listen,” Newt said, earnestly, “the jaegers are at least buying us _some_ time, and once I get a look at those samples we can improve them. We got this. Okay?”

Hermann didn’t answer, but he didn’t pull his hand away, either.

 

* * *

 

**RHODES, GREECE: 406 BC**

 

“I thought you’d be in Athens, Hermann,” Newt said, hitting the pebbled shore next to Hermann with a small _oof_. “Or is it Hermes now?” Blending in with the locals and everything.

It’d been a while since Newt’d last seen Hermann. A few hundred years, maybe. Hermann hadn’t changed at all, save for perhaps his hair, which was verging just-slightly on the edge of curly, the dagger Newt knew wasn’t a dagger at all holstered to his waist, and his white tunic, draped in a significantly different fashion than the one he’d worn about in Rome. Out of style, of course, by a few decades. Hermann was perpetually out of style.

“How so?” Hermann said, ignoring the question. He didn’t sound very pleased to see Newt. (Hermann was perpetually displeased to see Newt.)

“It’s where all the scholars and shit are,” Newt said. “Seems more like your scene.” It’d been Newt’s scene, too, until he got bored of tempting stuffy old scholars into stealing each other’s research and decided he’d much rather bother Hermann. Bothering Hermann was an art form Newt had spent the last couple millennia perfecting, and he was always eager to perfect it some more, if not just because (and Newt would not admit this even if you held a flaming sword to his chest) Hermann looked cute when he was angry.

“I like watching the boats,” Hermann said.

The response was oddly candid; it made Newt smile.

This, of course, made Hermann suspicious. “What is it?” he said.

“Nothing,” Newt said. He inched a bit closer. “Why do you like watching the boats?”

“The engineering behind it all,” Hermann said, and pointed to a small boat entering the port, sails raised high. “It never ceases to be—well, fascinating. Humans came up with boats all by themselves, you know.”

“I know,” Newt said, and smiled a bit wider.

Hermann began to turn an interesting shade of pink. “You don’t have to tease—”

“I’m _not_ ,” Newt said. “Seriously.”

The sun was setting fast, and the stars would be out soon. Hermann loved the stars, Newt knew, and not for the wild myths the locals made up about them—he liked them because they, too, were fascinating for their sheer fact of existence. Newt’s always wondered if Hermann made any back in the day. “Hey, listen,” Newt said, and he stretched out on the pebbles with a throaty little groan. Hermann, curiously, went pinker. “Tell me about the stars.” No one else indulged Hermann like Newt did, which Newt also knew.

Hermann smoothed his tunic out, anxiously, then looked around, anxiously, as if all the forces of Heaven and Hell would suddenly burst out of the ocean, point their fingers, and shout _Ah-hah!_ because he hadn’t smote Newt yet. “I’m not sure if that’s _wise,_ Newt…”

“Come _onn_ ,” Newt said, head lolling to the side as he looked at Hermann imploringly, “I’ve been bored as shit. Humor me.”

It was dark. No one would notice two men sitting on a beach without a fair bit of effort, and even if they did, it wasn’t as if anyone would recognize them. Hermann chewed on his lower lip for a moment, probably mulling it all over, and his eyes scanned the horizon once before he nodded.

 

* * *

 

**MAINZ, GERMANY: 1451**

 

“Can’t you talk to them about it?” Newt said. “Tweak it? Work in a little—” He waggled his fingers. “—you know. Divine influence.” He wasn’t strictly sure if this was Hermann’s jurisdiction, but no harm in asking before the thing was sent off to Gutenberg. “It was bad enough they muddled it up back _then_ , but now—”

“It serves you right, as far as I’m concerned,” Hermann said. “I don’t know why you expected me to feel otherwise.” Then, wildly condescending, “So no, I won’t be—” He mirrored Newt’s gesture and pulled a face. “Terribly sorry.”

Hermann could be a real jackass for an angel sometimes. Newt sagged in disappointment. “I just don’t see where all the confusion came from, is all,” he said. “It’s an easy distinction to make.”

“Please,” Hermann groaned, and buried his face in his hands, “not now. I cannot have this conversation again, Newton.”

“Newts have legs,” Newt said anyway, because he’d already launched into the familiar tirade. “Anyone with eyes could’ve seen that I had legs. And now—now here we are, snakes are the epitome of evil, and what are newts? They’re _cute_. No one’s scared of them. I’m just saying. I earned the bad rap and who gets it? _Snakes_.”

“It’s not meant to be taken _literally_ ,” Hermann said, looking pained. “As you bloody well know.”

“It’s bullshit, is what it is,” Newt said. “Fine. _Whatever_.”

 

* * *

 

**2021**

 

“They’re cool,” Newt said defensively.

“They’re tasteless,” Hermann said. “Why did you bother paying for them, anyway? You could’ve just—”

“I don’t know,” Newt said. “More official, I guess?” Besides, it wasn’t like he was an artist or anything like that. Anything he would've come up with would’ve looked like a toddler’s fingerpainting at best.

He flexed his bare arms. His new kaiju sleeve tattoos—the subject of Hermann’s current scrutiny—flexed along with them. It’d been a pain in the ass to hide them from Hermann as long as he did. “I want to get them up my shoulders,” he continued. “Maybe down my chest.”

“ _Why_?” Hermann said. He wrinkled his nose.

Newt did not know how to respond. He wanted them for a lot of reasons. The kaiju fascinated him, for one; he wanted to understand them desperately. They were outsiders to this world, like him—like him and _Hermann_. They’d flipped a giant bird to the Great Big Plan and thrown Above and Below for a loop, like Newt wished he could and _had_ wished he could for centuries. He had a feeling Hermann understood this. He wouldn’t have devoted whatever little time the Earth had left to understanding every facet of Breach physics if he didn’t—he could’ve just fucked off and let someone else pick up the slack instead. They were more alike than Hermann often cared to admit. “They’re…” Newt searched for the right word. “Awesome.”

“Awesome,” Hermann echoed, but Newt had a feeling most of his distaste was for show.

 

* * *

 

**LONDON, ENGLAND: 1851**

 

Newt supposed the correct descriptor for this all would be _covert_ or _clandestine_ , or perhaps _rendezvous_ , if you wanted a noun. It was covert; it was clandestine. Strictly speaking, Newt wasn’t supposed to associate with Hermann and Hermann wasn’t supposed to associate with Newt beyond terms of business, ie, Newt doing Bad, Hermann doing Good. But, you know, an immortal being gets lonely every now and then. Hermann was better company than most. Even if he still was a bit of a jackass. And the meeting _hadn’t_ been arranged, necessarily.

Newt’d bumped into Hermann _accidentally_ at the Great Exhibition, coincidences coincidences, when they both stopped to examine the same beekeeper’s display. (Free honey samples.) Hermann didn’t even have the grace to look surprised. Just sort of sniffed and preened a bit. He looked nicer than the last time Newt saw him, though his clothing was still helplessly out of fashion (nearly by a century), his cravat tied incorrectly, and his hair looked like someone had come at it with a badly-sharpened razor. The overall effect was hopelessly endearing, and Newt found he liked it a great deal. This was nothing new: Newt always liked the way Hermann looked.

He couldn’t help but smile a little. He wished he hadn’t: Hermann’s features immediately darkened into a look of suspicion, as they usually did when Newt smiled at him. “Where’ve _you_ been, then?” he said, bypassing polite greetings entirely. “You haven’t written me in a fair bit. I was beginning to…”

He trailed off, awkwardly, with a cough, but Newt knew he was going to say _worry_. He saved Hermann the embarrassment of it by cutting in.

“America,” Newt said, and Hermann winced at the accent Newt’d picked up and deliberately strained now. “Real hellhole. Metaphorically speaking. You’d hate it. You?”

“Germany,” Hermann said, which explained the odd lilt to his previously _very_ English accent. He did not elaborate.

They walked on together. Last Newt’d seen Hermann was back when it was still the fashion to carry funny little swords around in sheaths on your belt. Newt never bothered—seemed like too much of a hassle—but Hermann had taken to it. Convenient, he figured. “What happened to the—” Newt wiggled his fingers at Hermann’s waist, and then mimed swinging something heavy.

“Oh,” Hermann said. He held up his embossed cane. It wasn’t for show—Hermann had wounded his hip badly a few decades back and, though Newt knew Above probably would’ve granted an official request for another body, he’d chosen to stick with this one anyway. Newt supposed he wasn’t in any place to judge. Cnce his vision started going (too much squinting in badly-lit rooms in the Middle Ages, thank Someone for humans inventing gas lamps), he could’ve done the same and would have no use for eyeglasses if he hadn’t decided that they made him look more Scholarly. “Er. It seemed more _subtle_ this way. Two birds with one stone, as it were.”

“Does it still flame?” Newt said. “I always thought that looked cool.”

“I don’t imagine it wouldn’t,” Hermann said. They watched a cage of flapping butterflies together. Newt always liked butterflies. He’d considered owning some for a while. “America. What are you doing over here?”

“Heard about this thing, thought it sounded fun,” Newt said, and shrugged. “Besides.” He tugged his personalized invitation from his jacket with a flourish and presented it to Hermann. “I was invited. I’m a _doctor_ now, did you know?”

“A _doctor_?” Hermann echoed, and snagged the paper from his hand. “Heav—er, someone help whoever comes to _you_ for help.”

“Not that kind of doctor,” Newt said as Hermann pored over it, “though I resent that. Anyway, biology’s fun. I think I might go in for another soon. Got plenty of time, you know.”

“Indeed,” Hermann said, all prim and proper, and handed the invitation back over. He was pinching it between two fingers, like touching Newt would burn him through his fancy leather gloves or something. “I did my studies in mathematics. Numbers, after all, are as close as we can get to—er, well— _His_ handwriting.”

“Look at us,” Newt said delightedly, choosing not to verbally skewer Hermann for the latter statement like he so desperately wanted to, because, like, come on, man. “All _accomplished_.” He punched Hermann, good-naturedly, at the shoulder; Hermann winced. “‘Dr. Newt’ doesn’t really have much of a ring to it, though,” Newt continued. “It sounds kind of dumb.” He figured it was about time that he come up with a last name of some sort. 

“I changed mine,” Hermann said, then, twice as prim and proper, “Dr. Hermann Gottlieb, now.”

“ _Gottlieb_?”

A blush was spreading over Hermann’s face; a grin was spreading over Newt’s. Daddy Issues, Newt remembered thinking back in Eden. “It’s. Er. German,” Hermann said.

“I know _that_ ,” Newt said. “Doesn’t it mean—”

Hermann cleared his throat. “It means nothing,” he said. “Nothing whatsoever. Off we go, then, Newton.”

“Dr. Newt,” Newt corrected.

Hermann made a face. “You really ought to change that,” he said.

 

* * *

 

**2023**

 

Newt found Hermann on the roof of the Shatterdome, leaning against the railing with his parka zipped up to keep out the rain. He held a cigarette in his hand, which remained miraculously unsoggy, though the rest of him was drenched. He didn’t bother trying to hide it when Newt sidled up next to him.

“Vice,” Newt remarked, corner of his mouth twitching upwards. “I’m flattered, Hermann.”

“Don’t be,” Hermann snorted. He flicked some ash out to the churning steel-grey sea below, then dropped the cigarette stub and ground it under his heel. “I’ve been meaning to quit for a century.”

“I was looking for you,” Newt said, privately not seeing why it mattered if Hermann quit or not—it wasn't as if they were harming him, after all. “I was wondering if you wanted to get dinner.” It was about time they made another appearance in the mess hall: they got raised eyebrows and too many (well-meaning) questions when it seemed like they hadn’t eaten in a while.

Hermann hummed noncommittally. “I suppose we better.”

Newt pushed away from the railing and headed back in the direction of the utility entrance. It took him a moment to realize Hermann hadn’t followed. “Are you coming?” he said over his shoulder.

Hermann did not answer, so Newt shut the door and doubled back.

They watched the rain for a little bit. Whenever Newt’s glasses became too blurry to see through, he glared them into submission. He wished he’d brought his umbrella.

“Suppose,” Hermann said, his voice faltering, “suppose this all doesn’t _work_. That the humans fail. Then what do we do?”

Newt shrugged. “Beats me. I bet we could take them on ourselves.” He nudged the end of Hermann’s cane with his boot. “Maybe get in a few hits with your sword before they, like, eat us.” He laughed.

“I didn’t mean the kaiju,” Hermann said. He tapped his fingers on the railing. “If humanity’s wiped out—”

They've discussed this before, but never this directly. There’d be no use for Newt or Hermann Here anymore. Chances would be very, very slim that they’d ever see each other again. Hermann rarely acknowledged aloud, or would even _admit_ to, the extent to which they cared for each other—whereas Newt was practically shouting it from the rooftops, Hermann preferred to compartmentalize and bottle-up everything, to shout at Newt and argue with Newt and avoid Newt until it all finally blew up in their faces—and to have him do so now was unnerving. More than unnerving: there really _was_ a chance they’d never see each other again, and it terrified Newt.

“We'll win,” Newt said. 

 

* * *

 

**CAMBRIDGE, ENGLAND: 1969**

 

“See,” Newt said. “America _is_ good for something.”

“Only very occasionally,” Hermann said, though his wide smile belied his affected indifference and the begrudging way he said it, and he took a none-too-stingy sip of the celebratory champagne Newt had miracled for them. “Very, _very_ occasionally.”

They were sprawled out on the old patchwork couch Hermann crammed into his home office by way of miracle just for the occasion, television (courtesy of a miracle of Newt’s own, once he realized Hermann’s tinny transistor radio wouldn’t cut it) switched on to the live Apollo 11 coverage. Ideally, Newt would’ve liked to host this shindig back in his apartment in Boston—where he had, like, actual snacks and stuff, and his furniture wasn’t covered in a thin veneer of chalk dust—but Hermann patently refused to miracle himself across the Atlantic unless it was an actual emergency, and this, evidently, did not count as an actual emergency.

(“Hey, dude,” Newt had said as he waltzed in, and Hermann had choked on his tea and made a truly spectacular face.

“ _Dude_?”

“Some new-fangled slang,” Newt said, in a bad approximation of the English accent Hermann’d adopted and refined to pretension over the years. “I like it. I think I’ll keep using it.” He hopped up on the edge of Hermann’s desk and kicked his legs back and forth. “How’ve you been?”

Hermann made a vague noise. “Much of the same,” he said. He squinted at Newt. “Is that the coat from Berlin?”

“Yeah,” Newt said, and tugged at the lapel happily. Leather jackets were in these days. Or technically they weren’t, which is what made them in to Newt. It went awesome with his motorcycle, which he technically still didn’t know how to ride. He ran a hand through his greased-back hair. “You know what’s going on today, don’t you?” It was unlike Hermann to hole himself up in his tiny little flat and pour over dusty texts and equations when something like _this_ was going on.

Hermann did not.)

“It looks like a movie,” Newt said now. “Like _2001: A Space Odyssey._ Did I take you to see that?”

“You know I don’t watch _films_ ,” Hermann said disdainfully.

This was untrue: Hermann had seen exactly one film, and it was _The Blob_ , and Newt had taken him to watch it at a drive-in theater in 1958 after lying to get him to miracle himself from the countryside of Germany, where he'd been living at the time. They’d spent the entire time arguing about whether or not a creature like the titular one could, hypothetically, exist in real life, and whether or not it would actually eat humans, and then Hermann had nearly discorporated Newt with a speaker out of shock when Newt tried to hold his hand under the dashboard. All in all, it was one of their more fun outings.

“Well, it looks like it,” Newt said. “You should watch it. It has time travel and aliens and stuff in it.” He knew Hermann liked _Doctor Who_ , which sounded sort of similar. “Hey,” he said, as the idea suddenly dawned on him, “do you think they’ll catch any aliens in the television recording?”

“Aliens aren’t real, Newton,” Hermann said. “At least—not the sort _you_ mean, with the—bloody—” He waved his hand around. “—antennae and the flying saucers.”

“It would be cool,” Newt said, a bit disappointed. The whole business with Area 51 and all the UFO sightings last decade had been some of Newt’s best work, in his opinion—nothing like spreading a little deserved mistrust in the government. And with style to boot. He poured himself more champagne, then poured Hermann some, too, as an afterthought. Hermann was a lightweight and it was always fun to get him a little tipsy.

“I envy them, you know,” Hermann said a few glasses later. He was leaning on Newt at this point, temple pressed to the shoulder of Newt’s leather jacket. “Humans.”

Newt set his glass down carefully so as not to dislodge Hermann. “Why’s that?”

“Gallivanting about in outer space,” Hermann said. He sighed wistfully. “I wish…”

He turned and buried his face fully in Newt’s shoulder instead. After a moment’s consideration, Newt wrapped his arm around Hermann. He was pretty sure Hermann could go to space whenever he’d like, but Hermann was a little too out there to remember that at the moment, and reminding him might make him try to poof himself there now. Besides: it was nice to hold Hermann like this. And he did understand what Hermann meant. Newt envied humans too, sometimes, for their largely simple ways of life (getting hitched, smashing their expensive cars into things, throwing garden parties), their finite lifespans. It’s why Newt picked up biology in the first place. 

“Your landlady thinks I’m your boytoy,” Newt said, apropos of nothing.

Hermann lifted his head up fully and blinked at Newt. He was wearing round eyeglasses these days that he kept on a chain around his neck, a contrast to Newt’s recently adopted chunky rectangular ones, and now they gave him the appearance of a confused owl. “My _what_?”

“Boytoy,” Newt said. “What do the kids call it these days? Your fella. Boyfriend. Illicit lover. I’m pretty sure she does, anyway. Keeps giving me all these looks.” Hermann didn’t exactly have many (or, any) other visitors to his Confirmed Bachelor Pad, and whenever Newt dropped by he had a tendency to roll out the next morning in the same clothing as the night before and with terrific bedhead. Not that anything should be assumed from either—Newt did not change clothing as regularly as humans did, and as for the bedhead, he found he liked the disheveled devil-may-care (ha) aesthetic of it and worked hard to maintain it at all times—but Hermann’s landlady assumed a whole lot.

A small part of Newt mulled over the disappointment of reaping all the negatives of being Hermann’s illicit lover without any of the benefits, but he quickly squashed it. Demons shouldn’t have those kind of thoughts about anyone, and especially not angels, and _especially_ not the angel assigned as their mortal enemy from the get-go. Still. Hermann had brown eyes and long eyelashes that Newt liked, and a cowlick that curled up when he forgot himself, and occasionally—only very occasionally—he would smile at Newt like Newt was the whole center of Creation. It was hard to _not_ get stuck on him.

“Urgh,” Hermann said, completely oblivious to Newt’s minor internal crisis. He settled his head back on Newt’s shoulder. His hair tickled Newt’s nose; Newt held his breath. “I hope she doesn’t start asking _questions_. Humans are so nosy.”

“Mm,” Newt said.

 

* * *

 

**2025**

 

In six thousand or so years of existence, Newt had never once understood the notion of a day being _long_. He’d never paused after dinner and thought to himself _man, what a day_ , or _this was the longest day of my life_ , or any other number of cliche expressions humans had come up with on the subject. The point of fact was that days had always been very, very short to Newt. Little blips in his big radar. Often several would pass at a time before he noticed—he’d once played the Sims 4 for two weeks without blinking, and Hermann had spent a month in 1814 teaching himself piano and only realized it’d been a month when a worried Newt came knocking at his door. Immortality tended to do that to a guy (or a guy-shaped being).

This was all to say it should not be taken lightly that, upon finding himself in the Bone Slums of Hong Kong with a dead baby kaiju at his feet, a neat knifewound at his nostril, and the rubble of half the city around him, Newt paused a moment to say (completely understanding the sentiment for the first time in his life) “Man, what a day.”

“Stop wasting time,” Hermann snapped in response.

Hermann was a little testy with him today, though Newt supposed it was deserved. He had, after all, gone against Hermann’s explicit instructions to _not_ hook his brain up to a chunk of dead alien and, as a result, inadvertently forced Hermann to find him spasming and seizing and on the verge of...well, not-quite-death on the floor of their laboratory.

(“You’d kill yourself,” Hermann had spat last night, and then he’d looked mildly awkward and corrected “Er, inconveniently discorporate yourself.”)

“Sorry,” Newt said. “Hand me that big stabby thing, will you?”

 

* * *

 

“Do I really have a choice?” Hermann said, and Newt wanted to kiss him right there.

 

* * *

 

**BERLIN, GERMANY: 1992**

 

“I don’t think this is a very good idea,” Hermann said.

“Of course it is,” Newt mumbled dazedly. He was a little surprised he hadn’t burst into holy flames or gone rocketing back to Hell yet. “It’s a great idea. It’s really—” Hermann began to disentangle his limbs from Newt’s; panic settling in, Newt sat straight up. “Hey, dude, wait. Wait.”

“‘Dude’,” Hermann said. “You’re still saying that.”

“I like it,” Newt said. There was a flush spreading down Hermann’s neck and big ears, past the mussed-up collar of his oversized sweater, and Newt wanted, desperately, to kiss across it, to bite at it, to do _anything._ His fingers were still threaded in Hermann’s short hair. He tugged at it now. “Hermann,” he said, verging on desperate.

They saw more and more of each other these days. They wrote to each other more and more these days. And today—Newt’d been bored, and he’d gotten tired of nudging kids into shoplifting bubblegum packets, so he decided to swing ‘round to Hermann and pay him a visit (moved from England back to Germany, now that the Wall was down), and Hermann had made fun of Newt’s newly-acquired overalls and flannel and Newt had offered to pay for lunch, but the sunlight streaming in through Hermann’s windows was so nice they just—

Hermann ducked out of Newt’s grasp and began to do up his cuffs. He was avoiding Newt’s eyes. “It’s not just not a very good idea,” he said. “It’s a very _bad_ idea. You never think of the repercussions for these sorts of things.”

“You’re the one who kissed me,” Newt pointed out.

Hermann had made fun of his overalls and flannel, but he’d grabbed Newt by the straps of those overalls and hauled him in for a kiss before Newt knew what was happening. (Remember when your landlady thought I was your boyfriend? Newt had asked.)

“I was,” Hermann said, “but you—” He sighed.

“ _Don’t_ say I tempted you, or some bullshit like that,” Newt said. “That’s just a dick move. Besides. You know I didn’t.”

Guilt flashed, briefly, across Hermann’s face. “I think you should leave,” he said.

“Fine,” Newt said. “ _Fine_.”

 

Hermann sent him a terse apology over letter a week later. The next time they’d see each other would be 2013.

 

* * *

 

**2025**

 

Drifting with the kaiju brain had been different than drifting with Hermann. There’d been no real coherent memories stowed inside the former, nothing at all even vaguely familiar enough for Newt to grasp and cling to and make sense—it'd been like a bad, confusing dream. It'd been overwhelming. Newt remembered feelings. He remembered ideas. The Anteverse was nothing like Earth; it was nothing like Hell; it was certainly nothing like Heaven, which Newt still could recall in bits and pieces. The experience would’ve been altogether unpleasant even if he hadn’t woken up with a nosebleed and a blood-red iris, and he wasn’t keen to repeat it even with Hermann along for the ride.

Hermann was twice as overwhelming—six thousand shared years, after all, of memories, thoughts, feelings, from Eden (where he’d liked Newt more than he knew he should) all the way through Hong Kong (where he’d clung to Newt and felt desperately for a pulse and hissed “Don’t you _dare_ make me do this alone, you utter moron” but had been really, genuinely terrified). There was irritation (and a lot of it). There was love. There was so much love it seemed to encompass every single inch of Newt. This was unsurprising; Hermann was an angel, after all. He was _built_ to love everything. Genetic makeup. Newt had a feeling that if he plucked out a strand of hair from Hermann’s terrible bowlcut and stuck the follicle under one of his microscopes he’d see a thousand million cartoon hearts woven in alongside his DNA.

There were some things that Hermann loved more than he strictly should, though, which was also unsurprising when you knew the guy for as long as Newt did. Hermann loved chalk. Hermann loved space. Hermann loved mathematics. Hermann loved Newt. Hermann loved Newt the _most_ , even though he knew he shouldn’t, with almost human levels of devotion that would be frightening if Newt didn’t reciprocate them a hundred times over. It frightened _Hermann_. Maybe because it was reciprocated.

“What a day,” Newt repeated as he watched Hermann vomit into a toilet. It really had been.

 

“I got a memo today,” he told Hermann a week later. The memo had been written in neon purple ink on neon green paper—Newt’s own suggestion for Below’s office ten years back, _really_ make them extra annoying, of course it came back to bite him in the end—and was still currently smoldering where he left it a few feet away on his desk. “‘Change of plans: proceed with business as usual.’ They’re taking it surprisingly well.”’

_It_ referred to, of course, the dashing of the Not-Quite-As-Great Plan, the Plan that’d fallen into their laps from an alternate dimension completely by accident, Apocalypse by way of sci-fi monsters—which Newt and Hermann had absolutely _no_ hand in dashing, of course. It was the Rangers who had taken the final kaiju down with jaegers, and it was the Rangers who closed the Breach. Somewhere in Hercules Hansen’s new office, there might be a classified report with Newt and Hermann’s names on it detailing their drift with the kaiju brain, but Newt had a feeling it was going to go mysteriously missing and Hansen would never quite remember to get around to filling out another.

“Likewise,” Hermann said. “And you’re certain they don’t suspect you of anything?”

Newt nodded. Like he’d told Hermann four years ago, Below wouldn’t be shy in letting Newt know if that were the case. He was in the clear. For now, anyway.

“Good.” Hermann sounded satisfied. He drew Newt closer to his chest with a squeak of mattress springs. A moment later, Newt felt lips brushing the top of his head. They moved down to the shell of his ear; Hermann’s long fingers pushed through his hair.

It was weird to have Hermann touch him like this, after an eternity of making do with only the faintest brushes of fingers, the occasional sweaty-palmed hand-holding, the memory of how Hermann’s lips had almost burned his skin in 1992. Hermann was doing a lot of touching lately. He’d kissed Newt on the helicopter ride back to the Shatterdome after declaring it may very well be their last shot at it (and, you know, miracling himself up some mouthwash). He’d hugged Newt twice in LOCCENT. He’d started holding Newt’s hand as they walked down hallways. He’d—they’d—well. Newt had not used the bed that came standard in his quarters throughout the entirety of his time at the Shatterdome before now; he was glad this was how they’d chosen to break it in, even if when he’d pushed Hermann down onto it a fine layer of dust rose into the air and promptly killed the mood.

Newt reveled in it all like a lazy cat in sunshine.

“I daresay we have some free time on our hands,” Hermann declared. Newt nosed against his sternum.

“We should go on vacation,” Newt said. “No. I should get you a _cell phone_.”

“Modern rubbish that’ll be outdated in a year and clog up another landfill,” Hermann said derisively. “No, thank you.”

“And a pair of jeans,” Newt said, now knowing conclusively that Hermann’s entire wardrobe was, in fact, from 1945—Newt had peeked inside the label of his sweater last night. “It’s 2025, dude.”

“ _No_ , thank you.”

**Author's Note:**

> i hope you liked it!! find me on tumblr at hermannsthumb and twitter at hermanngaylieb
> 
> also my wonderful and amazing friend leslie, who this fic is absolutely dedicated to just for humoring me when i sent her the first 1k words ages ago and who requested a bit set in ancient greece, drew [this art](https://hermannsthumb.tumblr.com/post/184556055183/lvslie-wasnt-this-a-flaming-sword-at-some) of the AU last month and im still absolutely reeling over it


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